


Blue Raspberry

by bauer



Series: Candy [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bittersweet Ending, Body Horror, Body Modification, Dubious Science, Extremely Dubious Consent, Medical Procedures, Multi, Needles, Open Relationships, Oviposition, Parasites, Tentacle Sex, to say the least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:39:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: It's not quite like leaving the doctor's office with a cool band-aid and a lollipop.





	Blue Raspberry

**Author's Note:**

> So... it's been 11 months and 4 days since Watermelon! Unfortunaly, I am too impatient to hold off to the proper one year anniversary. Several outside factors collided at once to force this out of me. It establishes the system under which the previous work operates, and is quite a bit darker. On account of me being me, it's not a fix-it, either.
> 
> If I haven't scared you off, enjoy! Feel free to talk to me if there are glaring typos, I forget a tag, or if you want further clarification before reading.

It’s September, training camp is nearly over, and Zach is sitting in an exam table, shorts pulled halfway down his thighs. His cock sits soft between them, his fingers twitching at their sides. There’s no reason to be nervous; generations of guys have been doing this. Josh came out of this same room fifteen minutes ago, looking red in the face but proud. One of the team’s usual physicians, Michael, rolls a purple glove further down his wrist. Player comfort is his number one priority—is it Jenner who’s allergic to latex? No matter. The gloves are nitrile, the good stuff. The long, sterile, gleaming tools on the cart next to Zach are medical grade steel, and he’s sure small foil packets follow the trend.

Zach looks skyward when Michael carefully but surely lifts Zach’s dick and starts to clean over the head with a cool towelette. He’s making small talk, asking about Zach’s last growth spurt, the weight he put on over the summer, his usual routine, but it’s all meaningless noise to distract Zach from him opening one of those foil packets, squeezing its contents onto one of the steel rods, and lining it up against his slit.

Since development camp, Zach has been working on this. “Priming,” they call it. The set they sent home with him had been daunting, but he worked through them diligently, just like he had everything else. This one, though, the last one, is as wide around as Zach’s ring finger, and it feels—

There’s not supposed to be anything sexual about your team doctor treating you. Even if he is filling Zach in a way he’s never been filled before—and Zach has been filled a lot of ways—and his touch feels somewhere beyond intimate. Michael is being professional, just doing his job, so Zach can’t clench or whine or reach out as he gets stretched out like this.

Zach tips his head back, closes his eyes, and thinks of team and country.

It takes a long time and several of those packets, the metal rod being eased out frequently to work more lube into Zach’s dick, before it’s in, settled deep and pressing. _It feels like fucking, more than fucking,_ is the elephant in the room.

“Your flexibility is still looking great, Zach, and looks like you’re in the right shape to finish priming and go through with the procedure today. Hard part’s over, right?” Michael chuckles, stepping away to throw out the empty packets and now-dirty gloves. Zach laughs along once, forced, because he knows that it still has to come _out._ Not for awhile, yet, as Michael leaves into a dark side room.

Somehow, and Zach still isn’t sure how, the rod still shifts inside him, sliding up against the walls of his dick, prodding deeper. His stomach clenches hard and legs tremble, beyond his control. No small part of wants to sob from the feeling.

Instead, Zach clenches his teeth, tips his head back, closes his eyes, and things of team and country.

When Michael comes back into the room after an indeterminate amount of time, he’s sporting a fresh pair of gloves and carrying three deepset petri dishes. Once he’s closer, Zach can see that each dish has what looks like little tadpoles swimming in them, maybe an inch long with tapered tails.

“Player’s choice,” he says, setting the dishes on the cart. Zach strains to sit up and peer into them. Unsurprisingly, they’re colored, goal red and union blue and capital silver. He dismisses the last one without much thought; on a living thing, the grey-white coloring looks sickly, a feeling multiplied by its sluggish bumbling around the edge of the container. The red one seems like a real contender, alert and elegant in its movements. _A lot like Dylan’s,_ Zach realizes. _Exactly like Dylan’s._ Another thought that equally intrigued him and repulses him.

The third one, a deep blue, is the largest one, in thickness and length. It darts from side to side, agitated, bouncing off the walls and causing ripples on the surface. Zach swallows. Probably he should dismiss the blue option on principle, deal with having matching dicks with his boyfriend or a limp tentacle, but Zach didn’t make it this far by taking the easy route. The blue tadpole thing looks strong, and if Zach has to do this thing, that’s what he wants.

“That one,” Zach says, voice dry, nodding at the middle dish before falling back. If Michael disagrees with his choice, he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t say anything at all, and it occurs to Zach that this is one of those things where he isn’t going to talk Zach through it, isn’t going to give him the time to back out. By the time he’s worked that out, Michael’s hands are back on his (still soft, thank god) dick. The rod is removed quick enough to make Zach’s whole body tense and his mouth fall open.

They always say not to watch, but suddenly, Zach couldn’t look away. He stares as Michael’s fingers curl supportively around his shaft, his thumb pressed against Zach’s glands, guiding. With his other hand, Michael uses a pair of forceps to pick up the tadpole. It thrashes, enraged, as Michael quickly transports it up against Zach’s stretched open slit. It wriggles there for a long second, until it gains enough traction to slide in.

This time, Zach can’t help but snap his legs closed and curl in on himself, nearly headbutting Michael in the process, hands grasping desperately at the base of his cock, his balls, as he feels the thing drive deep inside of him. _This is fucking insane,_ he thinks to himself, hysterically. _Impossible._

It takes him a long time to unfurl himself, forcing himself into acting human again. He can still feel it wriggling around inside of him, deeper than anything should be. Zach takes slow, deep breaths as he slides off the table and pulls up his shorts. He shakes hands with Michael, who congratulates him on cracking the roster and hands him a piece of hard candy, an old joke, and a pamphlet on his changing body.

 

~~~

 

The ink is still drying on Zach and Josh’s rent agreement. Most of their things are still stuffed in boxes and suitcases. Zach has sheets, at least, and charging cords twisting out from beneath his mattress. Idly, Zach sends a text in Dylan’s direction, even though he’s pretty sure Dylan’s schedule is a few hours behind his. He stares at his new ceiling, air conditioning whirring in his ears, and prods carefully at his pelvis. From the outside, the area still feels unchanged, but Zach can still _feel_ the thing buried deep in him. It’s settled, condensed and motionless. By that metric, yeah, it’s better than the priming was, but the _permanence_ of the invasion eats at Zach.

He can’t worry over it for too long, because Josh comes knocking. His question is menial, a sort of do you know whoever, did you hear he did this, type of thing. It’s secondary, Zach thinks, to Josh inviting himself onto Zach’s bed, dropping between the wall and Zach’s legs. That alone could be a friendly gesture, but his eyes trail, hot, down to where Zach’s hand is still tucked under the elastic of his shorts. “It feels weird,” Zach complains.

“Yeah,” Josh acknowledges. “But, like, we _made it,_ you know? It’s like a badge you get to carry around on your dick.”

The concept makes Zach’s stomach role a little bit, but he doesn’t say as much. Josh has been fighting for this for a long time, had to spend a couple extra years at every level to prove himself, the big show dangling just an inch out of his reach. But now he’s got it.

Zach doesn’t want to harsh that for him. Instead, he says, “Sure. I guess I just wish it was _done,_ you know? No one ever talks this part of the deal.”

Josh smirks, and, yup, there it is. “I can help with that. What’d Michael call it, uh, ‘ _manual stimulation?’_ ”

They’d done this a few times last year, something easy as the stress of the playoffs crashed onto them. Zach lifts his hips as Josh tugs his shorts over his ass and down his legs. When Zach’s done pulling his shirt off, Josh already has most of his essentials off and is moving to saddle Zach’s hips. Furtively, Zach takes an analytical glance at Josh’s dick. It’s not all the way hard yet, but it looks the same as it had last spring, uncut and stained red. It doesn’t feel any different in Zach’s hand, either, but the feel of Zach’s hand makes Josh sigh deeply, easy.

Zach understands why when Josh returns the favor, stroking a few times. His cock hardens, and it feels… tight. Congested. _Good,_ but like more than it should. Zach tries to maintain the rhythm, keep it good for Josh, but he loses it when that thing seems to wake up again, wriggling against that spot deep inside of him. He drops his hand onto the bed, moans, grinds up into Josh, who must be feeling it to, because he grunts deeply and drops onto his elbows. The thrust together, uncoordinated and desperate, Josh’s face in Zach’s neck as he scratches up his sides.

They both come, a slow drip, but it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pressure. Without thought, they press closer, pushing on again, and again, and again, until it feels like there’s nothing left in them.

After Josh finally gets his arms under him, he practically slides off of Zach. “Jesus,” he groans. Zach grunts, waving Josh off as he makes his exit, mumbling something about dinner.

The only thing that gets Zach out of bed in a timely manner is the hope of putting off washing his sheets for a little wider. Dylan had responded while he was occupied, so he sends a brief update before getting into his shower. After cranking the heat up, Zach stands limply under the spray for a long while, scrubbing at himself weakly. Out of habit, he tugs on his cock, gives it a look over.

Sometime in the last few hours, deep, bruise-like spots had risen on Zach’s dick.

“Shit,” Zach whimpers to himself.

 

~~~

 

The next morning, Zach’s dick _itches._ Worse than that time he’d fucked a girl with a yeast infection. He groans into his pillow and reaches down to squeeze at himself, sending the tingling feeling up to his belly button and down his thighs. The skin feels normal, but it feels swollen in his hand. Turgid.

At the very least, he can’t feel the tadpole anymore.

There’s a knock at the door, and after Zach grunts loud enough, Josh pokes his head in. “Hey, you wanna…?”

“No,” Zach says, rushed, his stomach rolling. There’s a deep, twitching urge to agree, to rub and rub and rub against something, but it doesn’t feel right. He’s not horny, not interested, isn’t even anticipating looking down in a few minutes. “Yeah, nah, I’m fine.”

Josh shrugs and ducks back out.

Slowly, Zach forces himself out of bed. In his bathroom, he brushes his teeth, double and triple checks that he doesn’t need to shave. He’s slow to strip and get into the shower.

The water is hot enough to loosen Zach up, massage out aches from yesterday that settled in his limbs. He stands there for a long few minutes, letting himself get loosened up, before taking a deep, steadying breath and looking down. Thankfully, his dick doesn’t look that much different from last night. He takes a few seconds to actually look at it. The handful marks are centered around the base of his dick; most are maybe as big around as a pencil, with one the size of a quarter over a vein. Not the gnarliest thing that’s ever happened to his body, except for the fact that it’s his _dick_ and therefore one thousand times worse.

His shower ends shortly after. He skips his usual morning jerkoff.

They don’t have to go into the rink that afternoon, but the media team still has their claws in them. It leads to some low intensity, family friendly golfing a little outside of Columbus. He’s not really feeling it, but it’s not a real trial. Or _shouldn’t_ be, at least. The cameras throw him off more than usual. Everything incriminating will get cut out, he knows, but he feels on edge. Like his feets aren’t really under him. Still, Josh and Markus and Lukas all seem fine, so Zach keeps it to himself and takes the chirps for being in the double digits over par as his due.

Zach must not be completely alone in feeling off, because everyone scatters for lunch. On the ride back towards their apartment, Josh exclaims, “I swear to god, I have never jerked off more in my life.”

“Hm?” Zach says.

“You _gotta_ be feeling it,” Josh continues. “Been stuffed up since yesterday.”

Zach responds, slowly, “I mean, I didn’t expect having our dicks replaced would be a fun process.”

“Your boy’s had his, right? He ever say anything about it?”

“Not really. He just kind of showed up with it one day.”

Josh shrugs. “Don’t have to worry about it freaking him out, at least. I’m just happy it’s getting better.”

 _Better_ is not the word Zach would use, but—

When they get back the apartment, Zach slinks back into his room. Josh makes a crack about burning through his data, like they don’t have wifi or unlimited data. Zach forces a laugh. He’s not calling Dylan, because Zach feels like shit and Dylan would just tell him to follow his doctor’s orders. This wasn’t a big deal to him. It’s not a big deal to most guys, as far as Zach can tell.

Zach lies on top of his sheets, hands clenched over his head.

Makes no fucking sense, if you ask him.

 

~~~

 

“Hm,” Michael hums, disapproving. “Zach, I’m not even going to ask if you’ve been following the instructions, because it’s clear you haven’t been. You chose to have a very aggressive strand administered, there is no sitting back and hoping it takes care of itself. It’s your body to maintain.”

When Zach doesn’t respond, he sighs and turns away. From the drawers, he takes out a few cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, a syringe, and a vial with a label too small for Zach to read. Zach watches on, throat tight. Michael explains, “This should get the process back on track. You _cannot_ ignore the aftercare this time, are we clear?”

Zach sits back, eyes to the ceiling. A cool wetness is pressed against the base of his dick, followed by a sharp prick of a needle. The injections trail upward, fairly shallow until they reach the head. His thighs tremble as the needle presses deep, until it hits whatever Michael’s looking for, followed by a slow depression of the plunger. Then, Michael flips Zach’s dick to lie on his stomach. The process repeats on his balls—deeper, because they’re still drawn so tight—and Zach holds his breath until it’s over.

There’s a moment of peace as Michael tosses everything into the biohazard bin, until he says, unaffected, “The next procedure isn’t as uninvasive, I’m afraid. The periprostatic injection must done intrarectally.”

It takes Zach a second to piece together what that means, blanching when it actually hits. He gets a childlike urge to ask _do we have to?,_ beg to be knocked out, anything to make this less real. Nothing comes of it. He gets turned onto his side, legs pulled up towards his chest, ass presented over the edge of the exam table, made no less real by the modesty sheets Michael busts out.

Michael wheels another cart over to where Zach is lying, carrying a small computer-looking thing and a needle long enough to make Zach feel faint before it disappears from view. He talks Zach through it, even though Zach wishes he wouldn’t. “I’m inserting a small probe to aide the procedure. This shouldn’t cause you any discomfort, just relax your muscles.”

Zach has taken much larger; the probe is smaller than a finger. But it’s cool, and rigid, and manned by a doctor. It’s a struggle to breathe evenly as things clink quietly behind him. The probe is still in him, acting as a sort of guide, Zach guesses, as Michael says, “First, we’ll be administering an anesthetic. Expect a short pinch…”

 _There’s no such thing as a short pinch inside your asshole,_ Zach thinks, hysteric. He can feel it, poking through, the light pressure of added fluid, the pop back out.

It takes five minutes for the lidocaine to take effect. In that time, Zach is dissuaded from the idea that nothing could possibly distract him being stabbed in the ass by the pins and needles racking through his lower body, radiating from the previous shots. His mouth hangs open, helpless against any noises that might be tumbling out, but he can’t _move_ because there’s probe twisting inside of him, moving to give the right position so that a seven inch needle can be inserted into his prostate, injecting god only knows what into him, for undisclosed reasons.

When it’s over, Michael offers him a piece of candy, as usual. Zach takes it.

Later that night, the skin on Zach’s dick is marred by a mottled navy. It’s a compulsion, now, to tug endlessly, until after he runs out of come, until shooting dry changes to leaking a clear, sweet-smelling slime.

 

~~~

 

Waking up has turned into an adventure. This morning, Zach feels feverish, head throbbing, and he’s not inclined to looking up from his pillow. Only years of habit get him moving for practice, a slow roll to the edge of his bed. A new habit has him looking down in his lap.

At the base of his pelvis juts out three inches of uninterrupted, slick, deep, blue, until it disappears again under the thin, soft pink of his cock.

Zach spends a minute gagging into his sink, before showering.

At practice, muscle memory gets him through. His tongue feels fat, ears stuffed with cotton, thoughts denatured by the heat. The locker room and everyone in it barely registers, Zach wanting nothing but to hole up in his room again. That is, until his focus comes to a point in the lobby of their practice rink.

There’s a woman, a little older with long, brown hair. Her skin almost glows, healthy and hypnotizing, and Zach’s feet are moving under him before he can even think. Still thoughtless, he says, “Weird weather we’ve been having, eh?” It hasn’t been, not much different from Michigan or the averages.

The woman smiles kindly, all white teeth, and says, “I’m ready for it to be winter, for sure. Never liked the heat much.”

 _Heat_ is the only way to describe what’s unfurling in Zach’s stomach. He raises his fingers to graze, lightly, at her elbow, and opens his mouth to say, “My name’s Zach. And you—”

A hand clamps down tight on the side of his neck, dragging Zach back and away. Anger bubbles inside him, and only it being _Nick_ keeps him from lashing out. He’s still burning when he gets shoved into an empty room.

“I know that little worm has probably made it’s way to your brain by now,” Nick starts, patient, “But that is not a good enough reason for me to let you sidle up my wife.”

Zach opens his mouth to protest, that’s not even how it’s supposed to _work—_

But it is, isn’t it? You go through the procedure to help keep up with the mental and physical aspects of the game. How else is that supposed to work? Did he expect the extra appendage to work like some sort of stress toy, an isolated side effect?

Zach forces himself to swallow, painfully. “I’m sorry, this isn’t the type of guy I am, I don’t what that was—”

“It’s fine, I remember being in that stage. Just don’t be sticking things where they shouldn’t go,” Nick says. Zach accepts the free pass with a tight nod, before slinking out towards the parking lot. He has to pass by Theresa, who, jesus, has their _son_ sitting on her hip. How had he not noticed before? What is _wrong_ with him?

“Dude,” Josh says when Zach finally slides into the car, clearly holding back laughter.

“Shut the fuck up,” Zach hisses.

 

~~~

 

In the comfort of his own room, Zach sends what is quite possibly his worst dick pick ever. He waits until the little red arrow goes hollow before calling.

“Jesus christ, that is brutal,” Dylan says, skipping any pleasantries.

“You could have fucking warned me,” Zach hisses. “You know what else happened today? _I tried to sleep with my captain’s wife.”_

Dylan squawks, and it takes several moments of furious for him to stop laughing. “I’m sorry, dude. Is she really that hot?”

_“Dylan.”_

“Sorry! I don’t know what to tell you, I think I pretty much just slept through mine coming in,” Dylan says easily, and, you know what? Zach would be a little alarmed if he saw his boyfriend’s dick falling off. Zach _misses_ Dylan’s dick sometimes. Sometimes a lot.

Through the anger and the haze, something clicks, and Zach laughs once. “Yeah? Did you sleep through it the same way I slept through the times you knocked me up?”

“You did _not_ sleep through any of that. Needy,” Dylan teases. It’s a well established thing between them now, how little Zach remembers of those weekends and how much Dylan claims Zach had abused his temporary condition. Would Zach know at all, if Dylan didn’t stick around to tell him?

Zach feels sick, so nauseated it dominates his thoughts, drowning out everything else. He curls in on himself and babbles into the phone, “This is so fucked up. This is _fucked._ I can’t—I miss you so mad, Dyl. It feels so wrong to have these _urges_ and you’re not here.”

“Zach,” Dylan says softly, finally sounding a little affected. “The thing with your captain’s wife… I know what you’re going through, but there’s nothing I could do. It just wouldn’t work the way you want it to.”

Everything in Zach is churning, building up behind his eyes, pressing tears out of the corners. “What, so we’re not going to be attracted to each other anymore? Didn’t think that was worth bring up?”

“ _No._ Of course I’m still into you. It’s like a week and I miss you so fucking much, I can’t wait for us to have the chance to get together again. Every other time will be the same as always. It’s just… when you have a clutch, the person matters. And it can’t be anyone else who’s been modified. That’s just how it works.”

 _That’s just how it works._ Has anyone thought to question why? Question any of this? Zach groans, gritting his teeth as waves of revulsion and fever and abjection. It’s rough, but Zach says, “I don’t want anyone else having my kids, Dyl.”

Dylan inhales sharply, loud enough to be heard through the phone. “Zach, babe. You had, what, a couple dozen of mine? And they’re not… No. That’s not what this is.”

“Then _what?”_ Zach forces out.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you want me to say,” Dylan says. He sounds defeated, but not—he wouldn’t be that upset, would he? It’s already rooted in him. “Listen, you should take a bath or something.”

“And, what, detox? Thanks, mom,” Zach slurs.

“And relax. You’re sound like shit, man, it’s kinda freaking me out,” Dylan respond, and Zach is too weak to fight the suggestion. He sits up, slowly, and when that doesn’t end with him emptying his stomach, he stumbles his way into the bathroom. It takes a few seconds for him to figure out how to switch the faucet on, stop the drain.

 _Sweat it out,_ Zach thinks. He lies his phone on the toilet seat, Dylan still on the line, and cranks the heat dial up. Settling in is a shock to the system, but an almost pleasant one, compared to the last few days. Nothing to do but sit back, let himself prune, and listen to Dylan mumble about his week, until eventually he goes silent, too.

The bath goes cold. Zach considers refilling, again and again until the night is over, until something under the water brushes against his thigh.

He jerks out of the tub, almost tumbling over the edge. It’s not like his dick’s never twitched before, but—

“Hey, Dyl? I’m gonna hang up. G’night. Love you.” Dylan returns the sentiment, and then the line goes dead.

Between his legs, there’s muscle flexing that Zach cannot feel or control, trapped under the waterlogged skin. Zach lets his fingers brush against the exposed base. It feels hot, slick, _vital,_ a grotesque juxtaposition against the grey border of his cock. He prods at that frayed line of skin, pinches it between his nails. It breaks apart easy, like wet tissue paper. Mind empty, Zach keeps tugging, a long seam up the middle until it veers to the side, revealing vibrant blue underneath. He works his away around and up, picking mindlessly, flicking the dead skin out from under his nails. The skin is still caught closer to the tip, but Zach perseveres, ignoring the pinch as he wedges his nails underneath.

Eventually, the head of his cock drops into the tub with a sickening splat.

The tentacle starts to wrap around his thumb. Zach shakes it off.

 

~~~

 

Zach misses a preseason game under the recommendation of Michael. The appointment with significantly less poking but a continued undertone of disappointment. “Take care of yourself,” he urges.

The night is spent with Zach on his back in bed, under too many blankets, trying to sweat out the guilt.

It doesn’t last. He registers Josh coming home, the sound of him bumbling around the living room, other voices, before tuning back out again. Someone knocking at his door comes as a surprise. Josh and Zach had been giving each other space, both of them out of step for the last week (Josh, rolling his eyes and saying, “Seriously, dude, getting laid is not the worst thing hockey has demanded from us.”). When Seth lets himself in, it both is and isn’t a surprise.

“Hey, man. Larkin texted me. He’s worried about you,” Seth says. He doesn’t come very far into the room. Zach doesn’t blame him. The air feels stale and sickly to him, too.

“I’m fine. You can tell him I’m fine,” Zach says. His phone has been on Do Not Disturb for a few days. He knows it’s not the most mature thing he’s ever done.

“You’re really not,” Seth says bluntly. “He said it sounded like your first eggs started coming last time you guys spoke. They need to come out, now, before you self-fertilize.”

“Done that before,” Zach mumbles.

Seth huffs, and says, “They’re really not in the right place. You ever had kidney stones before? Like that, but worse.”

Zach’s stomach cramps, pulled tight over the truth of Seth’s words. His heartbeat throbs in his ears as he says, “I can’t. I don’t know _how—_ ”

“You’re overthinking it. Just… get up, we’ll go out, you’ll find someone, it’ll be done with. Simple,” Seth coaxes. Zach has the immature urge to throw his quilt over his head and wait for everything to just stop, but he knows it’s not going to work like that. The evidence is protruding from his own body.

Everyone does this. There’s nothing to do but slide out of bed, shower, and follow Seth outside.

They end up at a college bar, packed and rank and overwhelming. Not Seth’s kind of place, not really Zach’s either, but the crowd…

His mind clears again, like at the practice, white noise in his ears. He slides through the crowd, searching for he doesn’t even know what.

A girl intercepts him. Dark hair pulled back in two tight braids, sharp clear eyes that betray the ease the rest of her face shows. “Hey. I know you from somewhere?” she says, mouth a neat, gorey red. Zach isn’t sure if she’s who he was looking for, but she’s hot, and came up to him first. She wants it. That makes this easier.

Her name is Bree. She’s a graduate student, actually, and, yeah, Zach knows Nick Schilkey, kind of. They don’t talk long enough to establish much past that. Seth tells him to Uber home after on their way out.

Bree has an apartment nearby, close enough for them to walk, which she shares with three to four roommates, depending on the week. She escorts him into her bedroom quickly. Behind closed doors, Zach gets hit with a new wave of apprehension. There’s still a niggling part of him that doesn’t _want_ this, crushed beneath a mountain of _need_ as it is. She pushes Zach down into her bed, and the bubble in the back of his throat, any attempt to explain himself, dissipates. He holds his breath as her fingers fiddle with the button of his jeans, the zipper, then slide underneath. When she lets out a satisfied sigh, so does Zach?

“You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Bree murmurs, carefully working the tentacle out. Zach hadn’t really thought about it like that. It is bigger than his dick was, longer and thicker at its widest. He watches, oddly satisfied, as it curls around her palm, her wrist, as she seems to tease more of that thick, glossy slick out of him. With her free hand, she manages to yank off her underwear. She frees the wet hand and slides a few fingers into Zach’s mouth, just as she grinds her cunt against the tentacle. Zach moans and sucks on her automatically. It tastes strange in his own mouth, like thick water. Different from Dylan’s, for sure.

Of course, that hardly matters compared to the feeling radiating from the tentacle. Fuck, he wants to be _in_ her, more than he’s ever wanted anything before. They’re both moaning, pressing hard against each other. The tentacle is wriggling hard, soaking his lap, as it tries to double back into Bree. It finds where she’s wet easily, just barely starts to poke in—

He nearly sobs, hysterical, when Bree shifts away, raising up on her knees. She shushes him, and her voice is soothing as she says, “You want my ass, right?”

Zach couldn’t possibly care less, but before he can say anything, Bree is reaching down, leading the tentacle further back. It catches, but this time the tentacle goes slower, leaking wetness, patient against the additional resistance. Bree breathes evenly through it, face an image of concentration. This is going to fast, speeding Zach along fast than he can think. He forces his mouth open, against every instinct, to say, “We don’t have to… I can eat you out, if you want?”

“It’s fine,” Bree says quickly, waving him off. There’s no room in head for him to feel bad about it.

Time barely exists in her bed, and it takes a thousand years or an instant for her to be sitting fully in Zach’s lap again, arms locked on either side of his torso, breathing hard, as the tentacle throbs inside her, pulsating in a way that draws Zach tight, melts everything inside him.

“‘S good,” Bree slurs, reassuringly. She shifts her onto one arm, moving one hand to below Zach’s navel, a little lower, to the side, and then presses down solidly.

Zach convulses, hands jerking out to squeeze the flesh of her hips. Something inside him unlocks, starts sliding down, out, and, jesus, is that an _egg?_ It’s too big, it can’t be, how it supposed to get _out—_

Paralyzed, Zach can’t say anything as it moves through the tentacle, up between Bree’s trembling thighs. Everything in Zach is pouring out through these eggs, leaving nothing inside him, mind empty of anything but bliss. He barely even notices when Bree tips over, chest to chest as he pumps her full.

When it’s over, Bree tips herself over onto the cool sheets.

Zach wants to leave. He did what he was supposed to do. His legs feel like twigs as levies himself up from the side of the bed, fingers clumsy as he redoes his button. It’s lucky that’s all he needs to do, clothes-wise. Doesn’t even have to worry about keeping his dick out of the way, the tentacle tucking itself out of the way.

In his pocket is a card. Guiltly, he turns back around. Bree is staring up at him, eyes wide. He hands her the card, and fumbles through saying, “Um. Don’t worry. None of this is permanent. These guys will take care of you.”

She blinks up at him. “I know,” she says slowly, gesturing towards her desk and taking the card with shaky fingers. Then she reaches for her phone. It makes Zach flinch, but she just opens Notes, and, well, there’s nothing more he can really do at this point.

He glances at her desk, eyes glancing over her notebooks and textbooks. He almost turns away, until an author's name catches his eyes. Michael Spencer. Zach forgets he teaches at the OSU when he's not at the rick. The book has a generic sort of cover, with a large font stating _ETHICS IN BIOTECHNOLOGY:  CROSSING A NEW FRONTIER._ Curious, he flips to the table of context. There's chapters of euthanasia, animal research, assisting technology, the usual suspects. There's a little arrow pointing at genetic engineering; it's a large section, evidently the focus of the book. Skimming quickly now, he reads a few words that mean nothing to him, CRISPR, germlines, _a new, ethical source of stem cells-_

Zach slams the book shut. His eyes hurt just looking at this sort of shit. He doesn't miss school.

Uber has surge pricing, by the time he leaves.

 

~~~

 

The next morning, Zach awakens with a stretch. He feels wrung out, like the aftermath deep massage. It’s a nice feeling. His mind is finally clear, muscles relaxed, pores cleared, what have you. He sends a thanks to Seth, and an update to Dylan, including about seven blue hearts.

Practice feels amazing. There’s a synergy that Zach can finally tap into again, plus being able to think again, sharp as a knife, and his body feels in pristine shape, free of aches and fast to react. Perfect. He might have even gotten an approving look from Torts. It’s hard to say.

Lunch is easy, too. Cam herds a good group of guys into some nice family restaurant, and there’s plenty of laughter and chirping. It finally feels like Zach is part of the team. Like he’s truly good to stay up.

Dylan calls when he gets back to practice, and Zach passes his controller to Markus to take the call. “How’re you feeling?” Dylan asks.

“Fucking amazing,” Zach says honestly. He feels whole again, new appendage included, and he’s sure Bree is being taken care of. “I don’t know why I put it off for so long.”

“Huh, I was planning on flying down there for a day or two to check up on you, but since you’re doing so well, maybe I’ll just say home,” Dylan teases.

Zach doesn’t even bother to play hard to get. He ducks into a random room and says lowly, “No, I definitely want to see you. I’ve been thinking all day, what it’d be like if we got together now. Both of us high on it, our tentacles twined together…”

“Fuck,” Dylan says, breathless. “Okay. Yeah. Jesus, I love you.”

Zach feels like he can see his whole future ahead of him, how bright it is. “Love you, too, Dyl.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Baby Foot, anyone?
> 
>  
> 
> [The (very NSFW) side tumblr.](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com)


End file.
